


Think I Know Where You Belong (Think I Know It's With Me)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Personal Redemption, Post-Starcrossed, Unusual Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 06:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11708931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: She leaves, but he doesn't let her go.





	Think I Know Where You Belong (Think I Know It's With Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own no characters or events related to "Justice League"/"Justice League Unlimited". This is just for fun, not for profit. Title comes from Taylor Swift's "You Belong With Me".
> 
> Author's Note: I've written fics for these two before on ff.net, but I wanted to start fresh here on Archive. Take note of the tags: this is not canon-compliant. Just a "what if"/AU idea. :)

She leaves, but he doesn’t let her go.

She only gets as far as the other side of the country, one sea-side shore to another, and he’s there. Her wings ache from hours of flight without reprieve, and she can’t outrun him—couldn’t, even if she tried. So she stands at the shore and lifts a questioning eyebrow.

It’s not an act. She is legitimately curious why he’s here, with her, when he should be elsewhere. He should be rebuilding what she so easily destroyed, not standing there framed in sunlight with red hair mussed terribly and blue eyes sharp and bright. Too bright. She can’t look at him too long. It’s like staring at a star, or the moon, or the sun. One simply can’t stare too much or they’ll never be able to look away.

She doesn’t ask, but Wally answers anyway. “Come back with me.”

“No.” Shayera whispers. Shakes her head for good measure. It doesn’t matter to him.

“Please.”

“I can’t go back.” There is nothing for me there, doesn’t need to be spoken aloud; it exists in the air between them, heavy and pained. “I don’t belong with the League.”

_Maybe I never did._

“You could belong with me.” Wally says, and she flinches. The tiny flicker of hope in his eyes dies, and hurt creases his face. She frowns, at herself and her unconscious cruelty. It’s not personal. It isn’t anything against Wally as himself. It’s just too soon and she’s been rubbed raw from John, from Hro, from everything and everyone. But mostly from herself. It’s like washing your hands and the water is too hot and you don’t notice the skin burning until scalding jets until too little, too late. She’s done this to herself, and she doesn’t want redemption.

(Or so she tells herself.)

***

Two months later, she’s sitting in some dive bar at the far corner of Who-Knows-Where, USA. There aren’t enough people here to stare and make judgments. The bartender stares, but she ignores it and sips from a drink she doesn’t really want.

(The usual script of life, according to humans, says this is the point where she goes full-time-alcoholic, drinking day in and day out. But her appetite for life, for having a good time in cheap bars out in space, is dead and gone so she just pokes at what little bit of food she can scrounge up on a weekly basis and plays with her shot glass rather than actually do something with it. She floats through life, uninterested and unmotivated. Pathetic.)

She blinks, and he’s there. It’s too suspicious for the Flash to suddenly drop in a place like this, at this edge of the world, but no one blinks if some red-headed stranger in jeans and loose T-shirt strolls in and waves for a drink. Coca-Cola. She hides a tiny bit of amusement in her drink. She isn’t ready to smile; not really, not yet.

The shirt hides muscles and perfect body tone which his costume highlights with laser precision. But she likes the look of him so casual, vulnerable as Wally West, ordinary citizen in an ordinary place. It means he trusts her. He shouldn’t. She’s given him plenty of reasons to not trust her, but he still does.

(Shayera doesn’t ask how he found her and Wally doesn’t tell. She suspects J’onn might be responsible.)

They sit there, in silence, and sip at their respective drinks. After a while, she tries her hand at small-talk. She’s terrible at it. There is nothing else for her to talk about beyond the League and that’s a subject still too sore for her to start poking at with meaningless questions. She doesn’t know what Wally does when he isn’t in costume, so she can’t ask about his life and work and all the other things people ask so naturally in these situations.

She stops trying as quickly as she started. Stares down in her drink, sees her reflection in murky hues. Her stomach clenches. She mutters something about needing the bathroom and runs into the back. Dive bars have god-awful restrooms left uncleaned but once every six months; putting her head anywhere near this toilet is just as bad as the fact she’s about to empty her stomach (and possibly some vital organs, since there’s little in her belly to place on the porcelain altar), so she darts to the sink. She barely makes it in time.

It doesn’t surprise her, not really, when the door opens a little while later and one hand is pulling her hair away while the other rests on her back, slow gentle circles. For the first time, she doesn’t cringe at human contact. For the first time, the warm heavy presence of his hands (he has large hands, long fingers too) soothes and reassures even when she’s retching in a sink like a human college-girl after too many drinks on a Friday night.

Finally, it’s over. She slumps forward and Wally is right there to catch her.

“Come home with me.” he whispers.

“I have no home.” And she doesn’t. Earth doesn’t trust her. Thanagar has exiled her. She has nothing. No one.

(Except Wally. Somehow, against all odds, she still has Wally.)

“Then make one.” He leans closer, pulls her into his arms. “With me.”

She can’t. She wants to—won’t deny it, not after two months of staring at the sky from cold concrete rooftops and fantasizing this and that—but she can’t, because this is Wally. Sweet, gentle, faithful-to-the-faithless Wally West and he deserves better than a fallen traitor. He deserves one of his own kind who hasn’t been the source of pain and heartache for him and can give him the happiness of which he is so very worthy.

“No.” She whispers.

(It’s only somewhat surprising when he doesn’t immediately let her go.)

***

It’s seven months to the day and she happens to see a newspaper headline marking the occasion with praises to the Justice League. The weather is perfect for spring, a sun in blue skies and trees in full-bloom. Shayera sits at one side of a picnic table, smiling gently at the big brown eyes staring at her from the other side. A chess board rests between them.

(She can smile now, for this boy at their daily games. It’s a small step, but a victory all the same.)

Some days, he wins; other days, she wins. She never just lets him win, because then he’ll never learn. They play one game after another until his uncle calls, arm waving lightly, to come home and he runs off with a smile and a promise to see her tomorrow.

One day, the boy stops coming. It was a very pleasant few weeks of chess and peace, but Shayera isn’t surprised. She’s seen the trepidation on an uncle’s face, to have his boy so close to Hawkgirl. It was only a matter of time before it came to an end.

Still…she’s sorry to have it end so soon.

She gets on a train; rides the overnight route. It’s a weekday; no one is traveling for little vacations or the like, so she gets the train mostly to herself. An overcoat would make her life much easier, to hide her wings; humans don’t know her face outside of a mask. With the proper coverage, she could become just a nameless stranger without threat attached to her reputation. But she’s out of what little money she originally had, and she’ll not resort to stealing.

The conductor wakes her, some hours later. Tells her this is the last stop. Bleary-eyed, she gets off the train, stretches her wings, and looks around. It’s late, or early, however one looks at it: the streets are dark and empty, the sky a canvas of twilight and tiny stars. The wind is cold. It feels good.

She’s unsurprised to glimpse, through the platform lights, _Welcome to Central City_ scrawled across a sign in bold lettering. The immense relief she feels is more surprising.

She has no idea how to find him, but it doesn’t matter. He finds her. She startles him, and herself, with the way she runs to and throws herself in his arms. Then he pulls her in close and she decides nothing else matters.

***

Wally’s apartment is very much a bachelor’s place: cozy almost to the point of cramped, modestly furnished, and in the middle of downtown. But it’s clean and his couch is far more comfortable than it has any right to be. The first morning, she wakes up sprawled across soft brown leather, hair strewn over her face, and a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich waiting on the kitchen counter. There’s a note tucked under the plate:

_Mi casa, su casa. See you tonight! :)_

For the first time in almost a year, Shayera lets herself really smile.

***

Not even a month passes and Wally keeps coming home to find something new. At first, it was the kitchen sink suddenly devoid of dishes. Then the apartment started getting dusted, religiously, every week. Four days ago, he came back to find her shampooing the carpets with a tutorial video found online. Today, she’s making an extensive shopping list. He takes one look at it and both eyebrows disappear under the casual lick of red flame always sloping low on his forehead.

They get in a debate over “needs” versus “wants” over dinner. He accuses her of having too much time on her hands. She defends every choice with perfect logic. They finally reach a compromise while dish-washing.

“My mom’s gonna be all over you, Shay.” Wally says, later, when they’re unpacking all the spoils from their shopping trip. (She’s particularly fond of the new dish set, the one with the pretty gold trim on plates and ceramic cups of bright red.) “Cleaning up after me, making changes left and right…next thing you know, she’ll want to know when we’re closing the deal.”

She swats him with one hand. “A relationship isn’t a business transaction, Wally.” It’s the closest she will concede, at this point, that they are in a relationship. By human standards, they are, must be, what with living together and all, but the exact words have yet to be exchanged and she won’t push it.

(The excitement she feels, when his lips brush her cheek in the early morning hours before he slips out the door for work and she’s still sprawled across his couch, isn’t addressed. Not with him, and even less so with herself. And she doesn’t spend too much time contemplating just what would happen if she tilted her head in just the right way that his lips would have no choice but to touch hers.)

He just grins and they go about life. It’s the lynchpin of this…whatever-it-is, with him and her and him-and-her. There are some things they’re just not ready to talk about.

***

At four months of cohabitation, Shayera officially decides the boredom is too much to bear. She’s not made out to be a housewife or happy little homemaker. She needs to get out. Needs to breathe and move around outside of this little one-bedroom apartment and do something.

Wally comes home with a huge grin. “Got something for you.” He presents a little box, wrapped in gold paper. The bright red bow is a cute touch.

Inside, a pendant: ordinary in shape and size, the vibrant hue of an emerald. There is an assortment of chains and ribbons—gold and silver; black and gold leather. She frowns and looks at him, brow wrinkled in confusion. His smile doesn’t waver. He tells her to try it on. She’s still puzzled but humors him, picks the silver chain, and drapes it overhead. The chain isn’t too long, which she likes. The pendant rests soft at her breastbone, cool on the skin.

Wally gives further instruction; she obeys, and suddenly he’s in front of her with a small mirror. The confusion remains until she looks and sees no wings in her reflection.

“Holographic manipulation, if you will.” He says, and it amuses her to consider a time once existed wherein she never imagined such language coming out of his mouth. “No one can see the wings, so no one knows you’re you. Get it? You can actually get out and walk in public and no one will be the wiser!”

She isn’t offended, can’t be even if she tried, by such a gift. Only he could understand how much this means, that she—like the rest—can finally go through life without the hateful glares and bitter distrust coating words. She can be, truly, normal. Even if she isn’t.

(Once again, she doesn’t ask too many questions about how he came to own this little trinket. It doesn’t matter.)

***

A reasonably-contrived resume and (mostly) Wally’s recommendation earn her an interview at the CCPD. A bit of classic charm and her military background earns Shayna Hall a place in the precinct’s evidence locker. It isn’t particularly glamorous, but it’s work and she is quite taken with the overall environment here: people of loud personalities and diverse interests; a melting pot to put even the League to shame. There is only one other person assigned to Evidence, so she gets the luxury of peace and quiet when she needs it, and a conversation companion when she wants it.

Best yet is what this new line of work means for her: a new start. She isn’t Hawkgirl or Shayera Hol of the Thanagarian empire. She’s Shayna Hall, roommate and second-party-in-undisclosed-relationship to Wally West, Crime Scene Technician. She’s the pretty redhead with a preference for pencil skirts and tailored blouses and little silk vests (just for extra flair). When the weather necessitates it, she trades out the skirts for slacks in dark greys and blacks. Her shoes are always boots: with pants, they stop at her ankle; with skirts, they stretch in sleek leather lines to her knee.

(Wally always stops and stares, hard, when he happens upon her seated and drawing the zipper slowly up toned calves. Two days ago, Shayera let him know, this time, she saw him watching. The coy smile and playful wink was probably too much, but the man blushes so fetchingly and she simply couldn’t help herself.)

Sometimes, her roommate/whatever-they-are slips in during the lunch hour. On warm days, they go to that nice little diner down the street when he can eat as many hot dogs as he wants and she can get her hamburger a little extra rare. The other days, one of them packs leftovers (usually her, because Wally is too busy forgetting where he put his socks in the morning to do anything else) and they eat in the peace of her cubicle.

Today, Wally surprises her. The weather outside is terrible—the rain started at six that morning and hasn’t stopped since—but he still shows up with a to-go bag from the diner. He’s dripping wet, but the food has been spared. He also produces a large strawberry milkshake, and this is the point where she gets curious (see also: suspicious).

“What’s the occasion?” she asks, sipping her treat with relish. Yes, a mild interrogation looms on the horizon, but far be it for her to ignore that which has so graciously been given.

“Nothing.” He says. Shayera doesn’t buy it. He’s nibbling on his lunch. Wally West doesn’t nibble anything. He eagerly eats to the point of unhealthy inhalation of solid food.

“Wally.”

“Really, nothing.”

“Wallace.”

“ _Ohhh_ …” he drapes himself backwards over the chair, as if wounded by mortal combat, “Shay. Give a man a warning before you toss out language like that!”

Her eyebrows arch, pointedly. He huffs, pops a couple fries in his mouth, and leans back with feet propped on desk edge. “Rick asked me if the redheaded bombshell in Evidence was attached.”

It’s taken some time for her to learn human slang; there was little need for it, as part of the League, but her life as Shayna Hall demands education on the matter. Fortunately, since he is the master of butchering the human language, Wally is an exceptional teacher. “And what did you tell him?”

Wally shrugs. “Said I didn’t know.”

She blinks. It’s an honest surprise, to hear him so nonchalant about…well, about anything, but especially about this. He’s the one who pursued her, all across the country. Begged her to come back with him, to make a home with him, to belong with him. And now his colleague (she knows Rick well enough; well enough to know he sees something he likes and plays the cat-and-mouse game until he gets bored or the mouse tells him in no uncertain terms to butt out) broadcasts an obvious romantic (loosely-termed) interest in her, in her, and Wally…shrugs?

“But why?” she blinks, sets the milkshake aside, leans closer with a frown wrinkling her features, “That isn’t true.”

“Not really a lie either, is it?”

It hurts. She doesn’t know why it hurts so much, but it does. She can swallow the rest of her meal, but her taste buds are dead and she really only tastes the milkshake because…well, she’s not sure why. Somehow she thinks it has to do with the principle of the thing: Wally went out of his way to get something he knows she really likes and it manages to feel like an obscure dash of symbolism. Shayera isn’t the biggest proponent of symbols and their place in this world (she’s had her fair share of seeing them and having to swallow personal opinions as to their point and purpose), but she feels it now as the chill of ice cream slides down her throat.

Julie notices her depressing mood as soon as she gets back from her lunch break (she always goes for a run in the park trail, returns covered in sweat and grass stains, and requires an additional half hour shower; none of this is strictly up to department code, but Shayera has established a relationship with her colleague based rather prominently on discretion). She asks the obligatory question, Shayera—Shayna—gives the obligatory response, and they both go about their day. If Shayna Hall is especially quiet and not as productive as usual, Julie chalks it up to something. Whether it’s “feminine problems” or just the fact that Friday afternoons just aren’t particularly productive times, who cares?

Wally picks up an extra shift, so the apartment is hers for the night. She orders too much Chinese and puts the rest away as leftovers. Writes a little note and sticks it on the counter:

_Dinner in the fridge. Make sure you eat before bed._

She pauses. This sounds so much like something his mother would tell a son. She frowns, taps the pen at her lower lip for a minute. Then she leans forward and adds a final touch:

_Love, Shay_

Much better.

***

Central City either has very strange weather patterns or this is just a strange season: five consecutive days of rain, rain, and a lot of rain. Shayera has nothing against rain, personally, but having to travel to and from work in a relentless downpour rubs even her better mood the wrong way. Wally, unfathomably-cheerful Wally with his ability to see sunshine in storm clouds, takes it in stride. By day five (finally the weekend!) she leaves the precinct and finds him waiting for her, playing in puddles.

She makes him take shoes off at the door and leave them there. She spent the previous night cleaning the carpet, and she promises to have his head if there is even a tiny drop of rainwater found.

And that’s when things start to go wrong.

He’s got his shirt off in the time it takes her to blink and recollect her thoughts. “Wally—!”

“You told me not to drip.” He grins, like there is absolutely nothing wrong as he drops wet denim down his legs and leaves himself in nothing but his underwear and she jerks eyes to the far wall and ignores how violently her cheeks are flushed. “I’m being a good boy and behaving the lady of the house.”

Hmm. What other ways could she convince him to behave— _Oh God!_ She nearly slaps herself. _Shayera Hol! What is **wrong** with you??_

Her eyes are watering, but she doesn’t dare blink. She can’t risk looking away from the wall because Wally is right there, in nothing but cotton shorts which hide absolutely nothing, and her heart is thundering in ribcage prison and she must look like an embarrassed tomato. Only when she hears him pad away into the bedroom does she breathe. Breathe deeply—panting, really, which is only slightly less humiliating than the way she collapses on the couch at the wrong angle and bangs her head off the drywall.

She takes solace in books ( _Lolita_ , for shame!) not to actually read, but to just look somewhat occupied by the time Wally returns in his sweatpants and…and nothing. Just muscles toned and broad chest bare, red hair mussed left and right, and nothing else. Shayera curls all four limbs inward, pulls the book closer to her face, and tries to melt into the couch cushions.

The refrigerator door opens, closes. Printed words blur, shift in and out of focus, and she’s been reading the same page for fifteen minutes. The soft hiss of a bottle cap and carbonation expelling, then the quiet sounds of liquid sliding down his throat. She shifts, clenches her thighs tight. Embarrassed that she needs to even clench muscles in this particular bodily region.

Wally drops down on the couch beside her, the abrupt weight bringing immediate awareness to the proximity of her and him and her hands to all that pale skin and smooth muscles. Her fingers tighten around the leather bindings, staring determinedly at the page as it creeps back into visible coherency and praying for a literary berating.

Any hopes of that die when Wally plucks the book neatly from her hands. He drops it on the coffee table (the one they spent two hours fighting over in the furniture store: he claimed a waste of space and money; she argued aesthetics, pouted in just that perfect way, and won) and leans much too close. She wonders if she can get off the couch and out the window in time, before she stops remembering to behave herself and promptly ruins the only good thing she still has in this world.

She decides against it. Wally would probably catch her before she even got a foot out the window sill.

“…What do you think you’re doing?” she manages to whisper, frustrated when her tone is breathy, winded, like those flawless actresses in black-and-white pictures with their perfect makeup and tragic backstories and ‘kiss me now, darling’ pouty lips.

“I’m going to kiss you.” He says. Her heart drops low in the gut and one hand grips cushions before she further embarrasses herself and falls straight off the damn couch.

“And why would you do something like that?” she’s trying to inch her way backwards, but the edge presses into shoulder blades and her only escape route is to drop and roll like her wings were on fire.

(She’s on fire, alright, but her wings aren’t to blame.)

Wally smiles, really smiles: that wonderful expression of unbridled delight and joy, the sole cause of lovely warmth blossoming deep in her chest and spreading wide until she tingles and trembles and wants to sink into his embrace like a child while feeling those hands (those brilliant, broad, dexterous hands…) touch her like a lover. It’s terrifying and comforting and horrible and perfect and everything, all at once.

“Because we love each other.” He says it so simply, so blatantly, like there can be no question as to the validity of dangerous words such as these. Like he doesn’t realize how foolish it is, to love her and let her love him.

She frowns, opens her mouth to deliver the best verbal lashing she can muster. Then his hands are there, on her face and brushing across temples and fingers sliding through damp red strands. His mouth covers hers, perfect fit, and she crumples.

It feels wonderful. Just wonderful. She can kiss and be kissed and there isn’t even a passing thought of broken promises and betrayals to lovers-past. She doesn’t feel the biting conquer of Hro’s kiss or ache at the thought of John and what once was but can no longer be (she knows John has moved on; he must have, because he deserves a happier future than she was his past). It’s only the dry heat of slightly-chapped lips and arms winding around compliant curves and the meeting of chests, of heartbeats.

(Shayera is no star-struck young lover, but right now, with the rain beating firm on window panes and kissing and arms fastened tight and hands brushing here and there, she thinks she knows how it feels. Those wide-eyed maidens in film and storybook who swoon into the waiting embrace of their paramour. This is as close as she’s ever felt kinship to them. And she likes it. A lot.)

***

With his usual dismissal of social propriety and tact in general, Wally seals the deal when Shayera comes in the lab with paperwork to sign. He scribbles his name on the dotted line and finishes with a kiss right then and there, pen still loose in his fingers.

She sends Julie to deliver the requested items, an hour later. Attached to the front is a sticky note with a big red lipstick imprint for all to see.

***

About three months into an actually-established relationship, Wally finally addresses the two-ton elephant in the room.

“We’re not the original seven without you, Shay.” He says, between bites of ice cream.

“So make it the original six.” She says, thumbing idly through one of those home-shopping catalogs Julie always manages to pawn off on her, despite all expressed disinterest toward the matter. “That way it’s an even number.”

Wally frowns. Holds his silence long enough that she finally breaks it, just to break tension coiling in the air. “They’ll never trust me again, Wally. And I don’t blame them.”

“They’ll come around. Just give them time.”

“No.” she says. She says ‘no’ for the next week. He won’t let it go, won’t just move on, and she finally cracks.

“Why don’t you understand?” she half pleads, half demands, hands extended as if they could shake awareness into him should they dare touch (which they don’t, which she doesn’t, because it will give him ample opportunity to pull her close and she’ll lose the battle in half a second). “I have a job where I contribute to the community and enjoy good conversation with like-minded colleagues. I have a new name, a new purpose, a new lease on life. I have a beautiful little home that you and I created together—and I have you! Wally, for the first time in my life, I am _happy_!”

He’s sitting on the couch, hands folded loose atop his thighs. He sighs, stands up, and pulls her in before she can muster up a decent protest.

“But you won’t stay happy.” Wally murmurs, low and gentle while his hand rubs slow patterns on her back. “You’re not Shayna Hall. You’re Hawkgirl.”

“That was always a sham.”

“The name was. The person wasn’t.” he kisses along her hairline; she’s sinking deeper into his embrace, against his chest, soothed like a ruffled kitten brought in from the rain. “I got to fight alongside a warrior with an iron will, a heart of righteous fury, and a fist that packs a hell’a punch. I miss those days, baby. And I think you miss them too.”

She misses the days before Thanagar and Hro and misguided loyalties drove a violent wedge between her and those one she called friends. Family, even. She misses the sister-in-arms comradery with Diana and the quiet moments she spent with J’onn as a grown child spends with her father. She misses movies with Wally and John, all three of them together on a couch like childhood friends. She misses Clark and his unending compassion, and there are days she even misses Bruce and his stoic unsmiling self that masked his ‘no man left behind’ sense of justice.

“I’ll think about it.” She whispers, not entirely sure he hears her.

(The smile tucked into her hair says he heard just fine.)

***

It’s a chilly winter morning, far too early for a normal person to be awake, let alone just returning home. She’s been working late to keep up on things while Julie takes vacation. Wally is called out to a crime scene. The key slips in the lock. The light switch flicks on with one finger. She closes the door with one foot, quiet so as not to wake neighbors.

Then she turns to the left and drops her bag with a dull thud on carpet floors.

“You look well, Shayera.” J’onn says, and she actually thinks he is genuine—not from the gentle hint of a smile but the tender tone he uses while she stands there, shell shocked into silence and gaping like a fool. Her jaws closes with a click, she collects her bag, and clears her throat a couple times to ensure she won’t sound like a winded mouse.

“I wish I’d known you were coming.” She says, gesturing halfheartedly at the cluttered apartment, proof she and Wally have been working longer shifts than normal without time in-between to clean up. “I would have…cleaned up.”

“Not necessary.” He stands up. She’s forgotten how tall he is. How striking a silhouette his is, even at a distance. “You and Wally have been busy, as of late.”

She wonders how much of this has been told and how much is him reading minds. “Yes. Very.” She sets about making tea, just to have something to do. Her hands are shaking too badly, so handling hot water isn’t a safe option. She settles for making hot chocolate in the microwave instead.

“Are you happy then?” she feels him draw closer, but can’t determine if it is a physical proximity or a gentle intrusion of her churning thoughts. “I have…observed you and Wally, together. Your colleagues seem fond of you.”

The microwave beeps its conclusion. “They’re fond of Shayna Hall.”

“Are the two so different?”

She hands him one mug and lifts the other to her lips. Doesn’t take a sip, yet, because she’ll scald her tongue and while that would certainly take care of any further conversation, this is J’onn and he’ll have a conversation one way or another. “Shayna Hall doesn’t have a history.”

“But does she have a future?”

Does she? If there is one thing Shayera has learned from first-hand experience, it’s that secrets simply don’t last in this world. Eventually, someone says something or sees something, or she’ll say the wrong thing and fall back into old habits, and it will all come unraveled. As Shayna Hall, she may have established a decent-enough work ethic that the precinct might consider keeping her, deception aside. Besides, she is hardly the first to assume new identity for the purpose of escaping an old life. Humans do it all the time. Humans are constantly running, hiding, denying their past.

(If only it were so easy.)

“She has a better chance for one than Shayera Hol.”

J’onn nods, slowly. “I see.” the heat does not bother him, or so she assumes, since he sets an empty mug down on the counter before she’s even taken her third sip. “Then I wish Shayna Hall the best.”

There is a note of finality which should reassure her, comfort and soothe her, but it doesn’t. “J’onn,” she says, quickly, before he can fade and leave her alone, “…will you come visit again?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” She won’t let courage falter this time.

His mouth lifts, gentle smile. “Then I will come again.”

(If she weeps tears of relief all night, no one is around to notice.)


End file.
